||KIMULI||

Omar has been sentenced to life in prison. It's what he deserved and perhaps more. There was no case to plead and to be honest, they wasted time taking the case to court. The evidence against him was hard enough to win him a chance to a reduced sentence or freedom.

They are taking him to a maximum prison in the city. Far away from his land. Somewhere he'll meet new and perhaps dangerous friends, frenemies and enemies. They'll help him pull through his miserable life if not make it more miserable. It's a pity that he has to spend the rest of his life in prison for disowning and dismantling what he should have protected with his life. Again, I am proved right. Common sense is not a flower that grows in everyone's garden. 'Cause if he had it, he could have made better choices.

Zawadi and her family are excited. It's pure freedom and justice for them. Salima can hardly contain her happiness. She has been hyper since they declared his sentence. Not that I can blame her. She has been longing for that to happen ever since she was mature enough to understand whatever was going on. Now she has it. All of it. And she can be happy however and whenever she pleases. There is no one to stop her.

Her boyfriend, Hussein, is a gentleman who has earned my respect in the few times we have spoken. I took my time to observe him when he was speaking to Salima earlier before the proceedings began. He treats her like a grown and independent woman. He also respects her so much I was left in awe. Though it still bothers me cause I know their relationship isn't completely pure. It's the overprotectiveness that's burning in me. She's seventeen and should not be allowed to know much. Especially grown-up people things. But we are living in the twenty-first century. These things happen. You need only have a sharp brain to know what is right and wrong, which she has. She's too clever for her age and it's very good.

"How can I repay you?" Fatima asks approaching me from a group of witnesses who testified in court.

"Maybe you can cook me your famous pilau," I respond. She smiles.

Zawadi made it at my place once. It was so delicious I couldn't stop eating. She said her mom taught her to make it but she has never made one that beat hers. Now that she has asked, I would want nothing more than to taste it and do a comparison.

"I'm not kidding. This is a very huge favour you've done for us," she says.

"I'm not kidding either. I want nothing save for a plate of your pilau and perhaps," I move closer and whisper, "permission to court your daughter," she chuckles.

She looks over to Zawadi who is busy speaking to Hussein. Beside them is a happy Salima speaking to a friend.

"Oh, about that. I'm thinking about saying no," she says feigning a serious tone.

"I'll steal her then," I say. She laughs. "Either way I'll have her," I add.

"Goodness," she utters rubbing her forehead. "As long as she is happy, you have my blessings," she says and my heart grins with happiness. Nothing means much than a parent's blessings on their children's relationships.

"Thank you," I appreciate. "I'll be a good man," I wink. She smacks my hand. "Ouch!"

She's a great woman with a big heart. And I am grateful to have her as Zawadi's mom. She couldn't have a better mother if not her.

"Quite it. You better be otherwise I'll be getting her there myself," she says in a hilarious face. It makes me laugh.

"You won't have to," I assure her. She gives me a satisfied look. "I'm happy you've finally gotten what you've always wanted and deserved."

"Thank you," she says in gratitude.

"No need to thank me," I emphasise.

Salima joins us. Her beauty is exquisite. Irresistible just like that of her sister's that has me twisted in all kinds of manner.

"Thank you," she says humbly. "I suppose you are after all heaven-sent," she adds smiling. She's so sweet.

"Come here," I hug her. "It was my pleasure," I tell her.

Zawadi mentioned her being a high school leaver. I didn't bother to ask if at all she was joining college. I put a mental note to ask Salima about it. A group of women join us. They eye me for a moment before turning to Fatima. She nods and I take Salima with me heading to the lot. Perfect opportunity to ask her about it.

"Did you register for college?" I ask. She shakes her head facing me. Her eyes show hopelessness.

"No. My father wasn't going to let me go there. He already made it clear. He said school enlightened Zawadi too much and since he hates enlightened people, he preferred I stayed home."

"Now that he is gone, what are you thinking?"

She halts and looks at me. "I have considered joining the institute to learn about catering just like my sister. It is not expensive there like in college."

Her tone sells off her dissatisfaction. Here, they don't get always get what they want, they fight for it. And if it is too hard, you find alternatives. Like she is doing. I can already tell that she doesn't want to do that course but since it's what's available, she'll just take it. But we can change that.

"What grade did you achieve?" I ask. She looks at me with a questionable face.

"A B-plain."

That's university grade. She deserves to get an opportunity to join universities. Live life like a normal teenager. Get exposure and more life experience.

"What was your dream career?" her face gleams with interest immediately.

Her eyes dart to her mom for a second before she looks at me with a smile.

"To be a media personality," she responds in a dreamy voice.

How coincidental. A media personality. Trailing in my mom's route. It's cool.

"Really?"

"Yeap. I have always wanted that though as I grew up, the reality of life grew on me and I realized that it wasn't going to be easy getting it," she says in a vulnerable tone.

"My mom is a media personality too," I tell her. Her face beams. She likes it.

"Really? That's...that's cool. I would like to see her," she says enthusiastically.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket. Unlock it and scroll through my gallery until I come across her photos and videos. I hand it to Salima who stares at them in awe.

"She's pretty and confident and outstanding. I could describe her a lot just from these photos and videos," she says with a longing voice.

"We'll consider getting you into a media school," I say to her. She looks at me in surprise.

"That's really cool but the school fees there must be double or even triple compared to that of the institute," she says.

"School fees won't be a problem. It will be catered for by your sister. I would have done it but she would cut off my tongue and have it for breakfast if I did it. We'll speak to her and we'll see what can be done. Just rest assured that you're going to study your dream career."

She holds her mouth trying to hide her emotions. Just like her sister, they can easily overcome her.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"What's going on here?" Zawadi asks approaching us.

My heart flutters at her presence. I'm not used to seeing her dressed as a good Muslim daughter. I'm used to her urbanised self. She smiles at me. Then shifts her gaze to Salima. Hussein trails his way to us also.

"Nothing," Salima lies making me smile.

"You're such a lier," Zawadi pricks her nose. "Tell me," she demands.

"I promise it's nothing," Salima insists.

"Goodness," she mutters. "Where is Mama?"

"She's was just there speaking to a few people," Salima says pointing to the direction we left her. "Looks like she shifted somewhere else. You want to go home?"

"Yeap, there is nothing to do here other than talk with a few town people who want nothing but to know where I have been, what I have been doing and with whom," she chokes out making us laugh.

"I'll just check on her," Salima says. But just before she leaves, Fatima shows up.

"I'm here. We can leave, now," she says much to Zawadi's relief. I fish out my truck keys from my pocket and unlock it.

"I'm ready when you're ready," I say to them.

Fatima shrugs and enters the truck in the back seat. Salima is debating whether to leave with Hussien on his motorcycle. Stubborn little girl. Zawadi shoots her a hot glare that makes her pout. Hussein chuckles as he pulls her aside.

"Your mom is okay with this?" I whisper to Zawadi.

"As long as they're not foolish to populate the earth," she responds.

"Hilarious," I comment. "I would kiss you right now but these people will go preaching it to everyone in town."

"That would be the 'man bites a dog' kind of news," she says making me chuckle.

"Get in," I urge her cocking my head. She does so and surprisingly Salima already entered the car. Was fast. I buckle up and start out of the law court.

☆☆☆☆

We drive through the main road past the town and enter into a dusty alley. Several children are playing football and hide-and-seek around the alley. Most halt their activities to stare at us as we drive through. We stay put in the alley for about five minutes until we drive into a murram road with fewer settlements and a large number of camels feeding on the thorny shrubs and dry grass. Zawadi points to a stony building at a distance saying that it's their house. It's surrounded by a fence of dry acacia with a wooden gate.

On reaching their house, we park outside the tiny gate. At a distance, there are camels enclosed in a pen of acacia branches. The several people herding around keep on staring at our arrival like the natives once stared at the Englishers. I shut the truck and we all step out.

"Welcome to Marsabit," Zawadi says smiling.

"Pretty hot and dusty out here," I grunt making her laugh.

"Dusty? Wait until the wind blows and you'll hate it."

It's really hot I wonder what the temperatures here usually range at. Fatima leads us towards the tiny gate. A small boy with soft silky hair and a chocolate face is peeping behind a camel that's grazing just a few metres from the gate. He calls for Zawadi in vernacular. Zawadi responds to him in the same dialect. So does Salima. They still to converse with him. Fatima pushes the gate open and I follow closely behind her leaving the girls behind.

"That's their little friend Baraka. He's Hussein's brother," Fatima says as she unlocks the house.

It's a humble aboard that's very neatly kept. Very different from the one I've to be brought up in.

"No wonder they're so formal," I state. She nods in a smile before ushering me in.

I enter the house and kick my shoes at the door. It's like a culture in my country; leaving your shoes by the door. I walk around the couch and step on the Persian carpet and make myself comfortable on their simple yet comfy couch. She does a few things here and there before the girls come flocking the house. Salima says she'll help in making lunch. Zawadi wants to but she is stuck with me. She takes me to the rooftop where we spend time together just watching whatever is going on in the neighbourhood. Everything is like she described. And she'll be glad to see the painting I'll make as inspiration from this place.

Later during the day, I'm taken to the camels. The sheep of the desert. Zawadi is very good with them. They even recognise her. I have earned a few grunts from those that don't like me. Salima asks if I would like to milk one. I tell her I wouldn't even dare. It's bad enough most don't like me. Their father lost the animals to them. They can decide if to sell or just keep them. They are now their source of wealth. Zawadi does the milking which mesmerises me. It's a craft that you need to learn. It's not like milking a goat. These animals are tall, so you have to master the art of raising a leg to place your bucket on it and milk or get a stool to step on instead. Another literal drawing forms in my mind. The paintings will be exquisite.